Fall into Darkness Saga: Part One: Unanswered Questions
by Wimchi
Summary: Devante Virane has been banished from the College of Winterhold and imprisoned for an accidental murder. Upon his release, he travels to Cyrodiil for advice from an old friend. But with the friend having no memory of him, and a dark plot unfolding, Cyrodiil becomes a dangerous place.


FALL INTO DARKNESS

Part One: Unanswered Questions

PROLOGUE

10th of Rain's Hand, 4E 15: College of Winterhold

"Now, the key to a good Destruction spell is in the timing. You fire it off too early, it will either droop like a rotten piece of celery, or it will miss the target completely. Fire it off too late, you won't be able to control it, and you will end up killing someone in the process. Let me demonstrate."

Devante Virane held up his arm, poised in the spell-casting position. His joints did not tremble, his forearm did not falter; his entire body was steady. His deep blue eyes, which is late mother always reminded him looked like the waters of the Summerset Isle, bored holes into the target ahead of him. Though he was only teaching a class, and not facing off against a dragon or uderfrykte, even, he was focused. He had done this many times back in Wayrest, when he was a whelp under his father's training. It was nearing the end of the year, and as his class at the College aged progressively, he increased the difficulty of his spells more and more. Devante was the youngest teacher at the college, a mere thirty-seven years of age, yet no less experienced than his older counterparts. His adventuring days were done, and he had progressed from student to teacher in twenty years.

The Chain Lightning spell stewed in his palm for a beat, and then without warning, cracked with an almighty ZAP, and split the target in two. The class applauded, excited, and still a bit jolted from the noise the spell made. "Now, would anyone else like to try?" No replies. "Come on now, I'm sure you've all been training thoroughly." A Dunmer girl eventually acquiesced, and made her way through the other students to the front.

Devante scratched his neat, dark beard as she took up her place in front of a newly furnished target. "Alright, now line it up, time it right…" Devante helped her, and with yet another almighty ZAP, she broke the target in two. The class clapped a second time.

"Very good, very good! That's coming along wonderfully!" Devante ushered her back to her seat, then proceeded to demonstrate another spell, a modified version of Frost Rune. He got into his stance, lined up his target, and bored more imaginary holes into a third target. His hand started to shake. "Uhh, that's not right…" Devante laughed and grunted nervously. His hard started to shake more, this time turning toward the class. "This really should not be happening." Devante started to sweat, muttered prayers to the Nine under his breath. The class started to move back nervously. Suddenly, Devante's arm spun around so fast it almost snapped off, and cracked a Frost Rune directly into the class. A shard of ice pierced the skull of the Dunmer girl with a sickening crunch, spraying blood onto the crowd. The class screamed and ran, some of them frozen with shock. Devante screamed, but with the panicked ringing in his ears, it sounded like a mere whisper, alone in the tundra outside the College. A tear, Devante not sure of whether it was out of fear, guilt or sadness, trickled down his face, as he looked at the mangled skull of his former student, who he had inadvertently sent to the ever shifting arms of darkness.

1

12th of Second Seed, 4E 16: The Frozen Hearth, Winterhold

Imprisonment had been a particularly ugly affair. Though it was only for a year, the cell was dark and damp; the bed was merely a hay pile on the ground, and the guards regularly jeered at Devante, as they, along with almost everyone else in Winterhold, believed he was guilty. Which he was, in a sense, but it was not premeditated murder. Now Devante sat in the Frozen Hearth, drinking away his sorrows, as his life had no direction, no meaning. He had grown out his beard, or rather, it grew out on its own and he didn't bother to trim it. The innkeeper, a friendly Redguard woman named Marissa, tended on Devante occasionally. Saw if he wanted another drink, saw if he was feeling any better. Marissa saw innocence in Devante's bloodshot eyes, not like anyone else in Winterhold. He liked her. He smiled, as he basked in her warmth for a few seconds.

A drunken Nord entered the inn, ale on his breath, ragged clothes on his filthy skin. Devante swore to himself. He hated Nords like this. In every city in Skyrim, you would find one. A big, brazen drunk walking around with his chest puffed out, believing that he owns the entire province. He believes he's more important than the Jarls. Than the Emperor. He eyed Devante, and let out a horrific belch strong enough to send a frost troll into hiding.

"There you are, you piece of filth. Why are you still in our city? You're a mur-mur-murderer!" He slurred all his words, the occasional hiccup thrown in between them.

"Only a year ? You should have been-hic-killed like that way you-hic-killed that girl."

"I think you should leave. Bastard." Marissa said.

"You don't have control over me, woman." Devante's blood boiled. The Nord bent down, and whispered in Devante's ear. His breath smelt like something had died in his mouth, and it's decomposed soup of a body melded into his tongue. "You're scum. That's all you are."

Devante flung his mead across the room with a crash, stood up, and punched the Nord square in the nose, the crunch not unfamiliar to the nauseating sound of the Dunmer girl's skull. Devante screamed, anger and sorrow flooding out of every pore in his body.

"Do you understand what I've been through? DO YOU? IT WAS ONLY AN ACCIDENT. I HAD NO CONTROL!" Devante punched the Nord again. He lay on the ground dazed and confused, blood trickling down his lips and chin. Marissa tried to stop Devante, but her delicate hands had no effect. Devante lowered his voice to a growl.

"Everyone in this damnable city treats me like scum. That's all they think I am. It would be nice, for once, just once, that I didn't have to deal with it all, especially drunken bastards like you." He left the Nord on the ground, unconscious, and strode out of the inn, Marissa crying over the shards of an empty mead bottle.

He went back home and packed his knapsack with necessary items. He went to the stable and bought a horse with almost all the gold he had. He mounted it and rode out of Winterhold. Where he was going, he wasn't quite sure. But he could not come back.

2

15th of Sun's Height, 4E 16: Cheydinhal, Cyrodiil

The trip felt like years. He had taken a coach from Winterhold to Riften, and from Riften, managed to make his way across the border to Cheydinhal, in Cyrodiil. He had decided to consult with an old friend of his, Merandir, a former Mage's Guild instructor skilled in Destruction, as was Devante. Merandir, an Altmer mage seemingly casting spells in the womb, lost his instructing job when the Mage's Guild dissolved into nothingness, a result of magic being accused as the instigator of the Oblivion Crisis. He would know what to do, as he had known Devante since childhood. He walked through Cheydinhal, admiring the intricate Dunmer architecture towering over his head. He walked over a bridge, and looked down into the river that separated the mercantile and guild district from the housing area and the castle of Count Indarys. He saw his reflection. He looked wonderful. He had shaved his beard to a mere grey stubble. Merandir's house was near the castle. Devante knocked on the door. A tall, older high elf, impeccably pristine white locks slicked back down his head, answered the door gracefully, like a swan. He wore fine brown clothes, and brown slippers. "Hello?" Merandir asked, as if he had never met Devante before. Devante laughed, which sounded more like a giggle. "Merandir, it's me! Devante Virane? You old fool." Merandir eyed him suspiciously. "Excuse me? I've never met you, neither do I like you standing on my doorstep claiming we're old friends. You don't look like the most trustable type." Devante laughed again, this time a hint of confusion in his laugh-giggle. "Stop joking around, Merandir, you know me!" Merandir looked angry, his hand resting on the doorknob, ready to slam the door in Devante's face. "How do you know my name? I'm not joking, I will call the guards." Devante was confused. "Were you hit with a brick? Have you lost your memory? Look, at least let me in, and I'll explain everything." "No. Now leave." "I'm a teacher at the College of Winterhold, Destruction trainer, like you. Well, I was a teacher. We've known each other since childhood. Your father, Merindas, Talos rest his soul, and my father Johann went to the College together, trained us! I'm not kidding, Merandir." Merandir looked at Devante, back at the doorknob. How does he know so much about me, he thought. He sighed and acquiesced, opening the door to clear a way for Virane. Devante smiled, though he had no clue what was going on.

Merandir's house was simply furnished, with various oddments from trips he had made, and assignments he was delivered, sitting on shelves and cases. Devante liked it, only a little bit. He thought there was slightly too many. Merandir led Devante into a sitting room. "Right, so explain yourself, _old friend._" Merandir said, smirking as he emphasised the last two words. "Well, your father was Merindas, right? A mage in the Summerset Isle before he moved to the College of Winterhold?" Merandir nodded. "My father was Johann, they taught together." Merandir nodded again. "So if you know my father, how do you not know me?" Merandir shrugged, looked away. "I have no recollection of you or anyone like you."

"You were a Mage's Guild instructor, right?" Merandir nodded again. Devante bit his lip, trying to think of anything else that would pry information from Merandir.

"Has anything happened in Cheydinhal recently that would affect anyone's memory? Or affect their perception of the College of Winterhold? Or me?" Merandir shook his head.

"Not that I know of. Some men were in Cheydinhal a few weeks ago, asking about the founder of the College of Winterhold. Of course, the common idea is that it was Shalidor , but they believed they had the real founder, and he was in Cyrodiil. I didn't know. Would you like a drink, or something to eat?" Devante dismissed Merandir's hasty non sequitur, kept digging deeper.

"Wait, did they say their names? Where they were from?"

"No, they just explained that they foresaw their meeting of the founder of the College of Winterhold."

"But it was founded in the First Era, he, or she, would be dead, surely. Unless they were a vampire." Devante said. He was now just thinking out loud.

Merandir nodded. "Yes, it did seem suspect, but I didn't think one word of it afterwards."

Devante pondered for a spell. He had changed his plan completely. He just wanted some advice on where to take his career, but now he was embroiled in something much deeper, and he couldn't just sweep it under the rug. "Alright, thank you for your time, Merandir." Merandir nodded, smiled. "Where are you going now?" he asked. "The Count." Devante replied. He walked out, and Merandir shut the door behind him. I hope to the Nine that's the last I see of him, Merandir thought.

3

Count Indarys shrugged in the same manner as Merandir. Gods, the people in this town were not very helpful. Though Andel Indarys was more hospitable towards Devante than he first thought. "I caught wind of three men in the city asking around, but I disregarded it. As did the guards. I don't associate much with the political affairs of other provinces." Devante looked at Indarys. "It's not political, but it is of great importance to me. My closest friend has no memory of me, I've left Winterhold indefinitely, and I need to know exactly what's going on. Please." Andel shook his head mournfully. "I feel for you, sir, I do, but I can't help you here. At all. I'm sorry. But I do know someone who can. He lives in Chorrol. His name is Wyliam Savoy. Ask him." Devante smiled. "Thank you, sir." "You're very welcome." Devante left beaming.

Andel Indarys whispered to his steward. "Don't let him leave." The steward nodded without a word, and left the Great Hall, his hand resting on the handle of his dagger.

4

The men of the Psijic Order had received word that one Devante Virane had been taken in the city of Cheydinhal. Excellent. Stabbed, though not killed, his destination unknown. Well, the Psijic Order knew. They knew everything. And that was beneficial.

16th of Sun's Height, 4E 16: Cavern near Cheydinhal.

At this point, Devante knew Wyliam Savoy was a ploy. The whole thing was a ploy. Otherwise he'd have been halfway to Chorrol and meeting with him. Not lying in a cavern with his limbs bound. His side burned. He looked down. Oh gods, he'd been stabbed. Blood ran down his side, all the way to his shoe. Wonderful. A man walked in. His features were unrecognisable, though he seemed familiar. That's it. He was Andel Indarys's steward. He looked at Devante with sheer contempt when he had entered the Great Hall. He should not have been so ignorant. "Hello, Devante. My name's-well…my name's not important. What's important is you to me. And the Psijic Order." Devante stirred, managed to spit out a sentence. "The Psijic Order? What do they have to do with anything?" The steward smiled. "Hush, hush. All in due time, Devante." He had a dagger in his hand. A cold sweat trickled down Devante's back. "Oh gods, no. Please, don't hurt me. I'll tell you anything…" Devante pleaded and sobbed. He realised how pathetic he sounded. The steward ignored him. Gods, this felt like a clichéd kidnapping Devante had read out of his father's endless book collection. The suspense novellas by Alis Manwarring and Timothy Savoy. Hmph, Savoy. That made Devante chuckle inside, although the name floating inside the recesses of his mind made him want to destroy an entire village. Devante did not even bother to talk. He just let the steward explain himself. "We have traced your genealogical line. You are the son of one of the College of Winterhold's finest teachers. You're one of the College's finest teachers yourself. Well, you were." The steward snickered.

That horrid snicker was the last thing Devante heard. At least for a while. The damp echo off the cavern walls, the trickling of the various dewdrops scattered around the cave, and that snicker. It gave the cave a nauseating ambience of dread. All paired with the cold, searing pain in his side, and it was enough to knock him out cold.

And then he woke.

7


End file.
